[hider=Whisper, Death's Apprentice]

[b]Name[/b]
[url=https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2537328][i]Whisper[/i][/url]

[b]Appearance[/b]
[hider=Image of Whisper]
[img]https://i73.servimg.com/u/f73/16/77/80/76/whispe10.jpg[/img]
[/hider]

Whisper is a Kenku; a feathered biped whose wings falter and fail, whose voice dies, and whose dreams of creation are stymied by a divine curse generations in the making. All things considered, he maintains strange cheeriness and aloofness from his circumstances. It's quite impressive for a bird whose body more closely resembles an incorrectly constructed puppet mixed with a leaking water balloon than a living creature.

The Bright has cursed Whisper with a form most egregious, indeed; bones protrude from his wings, from his limbs, granting him a shambling and gangling gait- his living motion plagued by discomforting protrusions and difficulties in ambulation. To top it off, most of his face has slipped away- leaving behind skeleton and beak, hollow eyes as black as the first Night gazing ever outward. It is a form contrived of the stuff of nightmares, and it belongs to a very misunderstood creature.

[b]Race[/b]
Kenku

[B]Occupation[/B]
[i]"Death isn't cruel - merely terribly, terribly good at his job."[/i]
-Terry Pratchett

Death's Apprentice  - Warlock of the Grim Reaper


[b]Memories[/b]
[hider=Last Memory]
Whisper's final moments flashed before his lidless eyes yet again. The light. So bright. So all encompassing. Such totality. He could scarcely remember what was there before the light- and yet his mind raced. Yearned. Forced form into being, drawing upon the fragments of power that remained in his spirit as it drifted through the Inbetween. Forgetting who you were was common. Forgetting those you loved came easy. Clinging to the past, to purpose, to people- that is what gives the spirit definition. That is what Whisper sought to do. What caused panic was that the Light seemed to not be satisfied with merely eviscerating his body; it also clung to his very soul.

On one hand, regaining his shape came easy. On the other, this unnatural tie was worrisome.

There was no time to worry about it right now. Whisper drifted through the darkness of the afterlife, being dragged out from the shadows he knew he belonged, and towards the world of Light once more. As Life rushed to meet Whisper, so too did memory.

Blinding light. Definition. Shape. Quadruped, a great wall of muscle- it was the Steed.

[i]The horse stamped its hooves. Snorted. Even in the face of this immense danger, it remained aloof[/i]

Next came its rider, a gaunt figure. Hooded and bestride the great beast, a single skeletal hand gripped the reigns. A resurgence of memory followed that image- definition and tangibility exploding into reality through the Light, bringing with it darkness and tone. Whisper could imagine the feeling of the ground beneath his feet. He could almost taste the air as the scene played out before him.

[i]THERE IS NO ESCAPING IT. ALL THINGS MUST END. SO TOO MUST THIS KINGDOM[/I]

His master's voice was like the closing of coffin lids, a booming tone that echoed from the beginnings of time and spoke of an inevitability that would reach through the future until the end of all things. It was a voice that had once made Whisper shiver, but now brought him calmness. It was the voice of the entity who had gazed upon his wretched form so long ago and given it purpose.

[i]FATE'S STRINGS ARE PULLED TAUGHT, MY BOY. HEED MY WORDS AND CARRY THEM WELL. YOU WILL BE TRIED. TESTED. TEMPTED. MEDDLING IS NOT OUR WAY; THE FATES CHOOSE THEIR TOOLS AND WE OBSERVE. THIS, HOWEVER, DISRUPTS THAT ORDER. THE GODS THEMSELVES HAVE SOUGHT TO HIDE IT AWAY. WE WILL NOT BE DENIED SO EASILY.[/I]

At the time, the words had been hollow to Whisper. Even now as he listens again and again to the words of his Master, his feathers rise and his bones creak. His beak opens- a warning cry of ravens echoing out of his spectral throat. Beyond Death's horse, silhouetted in the light, rose a figure who wielded great power. Death's shadow, born of blackest night and the dreams of the abyss itself, was unwavering in the light even as his physical form was slowly absorbed by the oppressive brightness radiating from that figure.

Soon it was all that consumed Whisper's vision. That figure, radiating light. His flesh melting away, his spectral form evaporating in its might. And yet Death's shadow remained, seen walking through the light as carefree as any other day. A final message ringing in Whisper's ears.

[i]THIS IS NOT THE END, MY BOY. DEATH IS ONLY A BEGINNING. FORGET NOT YOUR PURPOSE. SET THINGS RIGHT.[/I]

Whisper relived this memory ceaselessly. Chasing himself and memories of his master through it. Every excruciating moment of death and radiant bane brought with it a relived insight of clarity. Again and again Whisper yearned to grasp onto the Fell energies his master instilled within him and break free of the hold the Light had on him. Time and time again he heard his master’s words.

When he awoke, finally escaping the cycle of death and life, the final image of a great tower rising behind the silhouetted figure of power had seared itself into his mind. Whatever had happened, whoever that creature was who could temporarily banish Death itself was, Whisper’s answers and purpose could be found there.
[/HIDER]

[HIDER=The Origins of Whisper]
Years ago, there was a thief. Silent as an unspoken idea and deft as a street performer with a spare hand for change. She was damn good at what she did to keep it short, but not good enough to avoid the yearnings of the heart and the ache of loneliness. This thief bore a child- but let us back up a few scenes, shall we?

Her name was Bellarmina. However, and you try saying that with a tape recorder that has never had that name recorded upon it, the common name accepted for this thief was Bell. Bell was a damn good thief who was slowing down for some reason, and she would learn why too late; Bell, unbeknownst to herself, was with Child. Ordinarily a wonderful thing (depending on persuasion), but in this case merely a tragic thing.

A Witch is someone who is lightly trifled with and usually for only good cause; a Witch in the Bright Lands is a creature best avoided at all costs. Bell crossed one such witch, a heist gone astray leading to blades flying and curses being thrown. Bloodied and ensorcelled, Bell had to flee with the Witch’s flying broomstick in hand- and a darkness at work within the child she carried.

For the record, Bellarmina tried her best. Truly, she did. Giving birth to a heap of bones and feathers would fray at anyone’s sanity, which in these lands is something already quite infirm as it stands, and the struggle to support an infant whose face was truly something only a mother could love in a hostile world helped her regain her edge.

But in the end, Bellarmina was in a corner. She kept the broomstick. She abandoned the baby. Leaving it in the wilderness, not capable of ending the wretched thing’s life herself, Bellarmina flew away to leave the horribleness behind. Emotionally speaking, that is.

What came along later was not some foul creature or mutated beast- but rather the trotting of a large and impressive horse. Its rider pulled out a sheet of parchment, then referenced a broken hourglass in a bony hand.

[b]THERE IS ALWAYS SOMETHING, ISN’T THERE? NEVER A SIMPLE DAY OF WORK ANYMORE. IT IS NOT YOUR TIME, LITTLE ONE.[/b]

When the figure spoke first to Whisper as a child, its timeless boom of a voice made him weep. Being lifted into the skeletal arms of the Pale Horse’s Rider, however, brought about a calmness that rivaled the dead. In silence, the wretched Whisper grabbed at the broken Hourglass.

[b]YOU MAY KEEP THAT, I SUPPOSE. IT IS YOURS AFTER ALL.[/b]
[/hider]

[b]Other[/b]
I intended to add more backstory, but what I consider to be the core idea of the character is present and am debating leaving the rest as ‘regained’ memories down the line as he ‘regains’ his power.
[/hider]